A story of ordinary lives against a backdrop of cosmic stakes, Duncan Fraser’s captivating and unique speculative fiction debut Terrarium Hostel explores themes of connection, belonging, and self-discovery. Day 1 – Keeping a Diary It was Octave one night in The Moscow Arms who told me about an article he saw in the paper about writing to aliens. I laughed at first but when he explained that this thing called the Sol Project was a deadly serious scientific enterprise in which ordinary people had been invited to participate, I became intrigued and sent off for an entry form. The Pinkland Space Agency is going to beam powerful radio signals towards a star about 35 light years away in an attempt to make contact with an alien civilisation they think is there. The signals will contain many different kinds of communications. There will be greetings and messages of peace from our insincere politicians and summaries of our knowledge from boffins in various fields. But also included will be diaries from average Joes like myself in order to give the aliens as wide an appreciation as possible of life in this neck of the galaxy. I received the entry form a couple of weeks ago and ever since then Octave has kept asking me if I have started the diary. So I bought a large notebook and today I begin writing in my diary for the first time. I have asked him why he wasn’t also going to do it, since he is so enthusiastic about me doing it. ‘My diary would never be accepted,’ he said. ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘The judges will all be Darlingtons,’ said Octave. ‘What’s that?’ I said. ‘Darlingtons?’ said Octave. ‘Culture vultures. Precious, self-important, loose-living bohemians. You know, arty-farties. Those kind of people wouldn’t consider a diary from someone like me for one second, no matter how good it was.’ ‘How do you know that?’ ‘Just take it from me,’ said Octave, ‘I just know. The kind of people who judge literary competitions are always Darlingtons.’ I had never heard of the term. Must be a Terrarium word. ‘And they are all absolutely stupid,’ Octave added. ‘Total dum-dums. They wouldn’t understand anything I wrote.’ ‘So why do you think my diary will be accepted but yours will be rejected?’ ‘Because you are a fresh-faced, innocent idealist,’ said Octave. ‘They like people like you.’ There is a great expectation that the messages will be understood because apparently the radio signals will also contain sophisticated translation instructions which will, if you have information systems that are compatible, enable you, my dear alien reader, to read the messages in your own idiomatic language and render my unearthly existence in terms that will appear bizarrely familiar to that of your own species. For example, whenever I mention my home star, I will write it as the name I know it as but it will appear in your text as Zeta Herculis B, which is your name for it. Obviously, I don’t call it that and have no idea what you call it. But that is how it will appear in the translation. Sometimes what you read will be a surprisingly accurate description of my reality. At other times though it will be an approximation or a symbolic interpretation of what my life is actually like. But I think the idea is to always make it consistent with a correlate in your world while remaining true to the spirit of my world. I will probably sound more articulate than I actually am but the software will always try and render an accurate representation of what I am saying and strike an emotionally faithful tone. The best analogues will always be used. For example, there is an intelligent aquatic creature in the oceans of our home planet that we call a …well, frankly, a vocalisation that is unlikely to be reproducible in your language … but which will be translated as a dolphin because that is the closest counterpart in your world. (If that last sentence appears even vaguely intelligible to you, I will be amazed because I don’t know if you have any intelligent aquatic creatures in your oceans. Do you even have oceans?) I also might mention at some point that I play a musical instrument. I don’t know how this will be rendered. Do you guys even have music? Even if you do, what are the chances of you having anything like the thing I play? Pretty remote, I would say. But the instrument I play will be described in terms that you can understand – so I play a guitar. Neither of us will know how good a translation that will be. But who knows? Your instruments and our instruments may be remarkably similar. My civilisation has made great advances recently in communications and many people are calling this translation technology the greatest thing we have ever achieved. If you are reading and understanding this, my dear alien reader, then I guess they might be right. I am sure it will at least be better than the old indecipherable hieroglyphics and mind-bending mathematical brainteasers that you poor aliens used to get from us. There is still a possibility though of some very bad errors. The artificial intelligence of the translation technology may find a suitable analogue in your world but not believe it and retranslate it into something preposterous to your ears. Apparently this has happened very occasionally in tests. So if you read the odd weird or unintentionally funny thing, put it down to the stupidity of artificial intelligence. But it’s not my job to explain the technical side. I don’t understand it anyway. My job is to describe my life. All the relevant explanations will be in the Space Agency’s ‘covering letter’, as it were. What they told me in the guidelines is to write as if the reader is completely familiar with my world. I am not to attempt explanations. Personally, I don’t
A journey through the centuries on the way to a threatened planet, Emily Chance’s astonishing visionary science fiction novel Hermes both reflects and redefines the history of our own world. The brilliant-white wheel revolved majestically through the emptiness of space, a glorious contrast to the blackness it was passing through. The station looked fully functional, its antennae spun around, searching out the heavens, and the docked vehicle appeared to be ready to journey into the deep, but the truth was quite different, this glorious testament to earlier achievements had been abandoned long ago. Onboard only one system was active, the scanner; and it was scanning the dead planet below. The scan had been triggered by the intelligence that, in the absence of the crew, now controlled the station, a keen, resourceful, intelligence, that had been crafted with noble motives; to build a space vehicle that would take its creator to the stars. Its mission, now, entirely different, was to scan for signs of life below, but there was nothing. The intelligence adjusted the station’s orbit over the planet. Paradoxically, the decision to initiate the manoeuvre was driven by an emotion, hope, not that there was much. The skies were toxic, electrical storms rent the sulphurous carbon dioxide-infested clouds. As the station continued its journey, the intelligence updated the log, written in the beautiful script of the nation of storytellers who, one hundred years ago, had commissioned its construction. However, for any future reader, it would be the last fifty years entries that they would be rivetted by; the story of the planet’s unremitting decay, of the creeping destruction of all life, overseen by the dominant species of the planet. One way and another, everything had the life choked out of it, and no attempt had been made to stop it from happening. However, there was to be one more act in this tragic drama, the scan’s beacon began to glow and resonate, four hundred and ten kilometres below, something was moving. *** He crawled up the dune on all fours. He was covered from the searing heat of the sun in tattered and torn remnants of what had once been a state-of-the-art environmental suit. The real problem now, though, was breathing. The atmosphere was so thin it felt like he was inhaling dust. He stopped to thump his chest and coughed. Could he remember a time when breathing was easy, when you could inhale cool mountain air and gather energy from it? Adam had moved up into the mountains of the South Island twenty years ago when the food riots had reached them. The riots had been going on across the rest of the world for many years, but his homeland, far off the beaten track, had managed to beat off any invaders and sustain itself. Eventually though, hundreds of thousands had arrived, overwhelming the local navy, and managed to make landfall. They were desperate, starving and war had quickly broken out. Well, not war – that sounds like something, coordinated, and organised. This was everyone for themselves and it was ugly. Anarchy had come within days, and he had retreated inland. He knew he could hunt and fish in the lower Alps and sustain himself. But so did others and there had been confrontations, which had led to death. He had survived in this manner for twenty years, isolated from the outside world without news of what was happening beyond the valley. Until now, when the forest fires had begun a few days ago. He knew if he was going to survive, he had to make it to the sea. The journey to the coast had begun with a climb to the head of the valley to spy out the land to the coast. He had brought his infrared binoculars so he could check the city. Even now, after all these years, he was shocked. Buildings were on fire, smoke rising into the sky. Some had collapsed, others were scarred, and external walls had disintegrated, exposing ransacked apartments, restaurants and offices. A story of ruin that global media had followed until it didn’t. There was something else he noticed. An eerie silence; no traffic, no aircraft flying, no movement at all. The wind got up, which was when he sensed something even more defining: the stench of death. It emerged out of bodies lying in the streets, and herds of cattle lying in the fields. A tale of unchecked rampant disease, of the thousand and one ailments of an unhealthy, disease-ridden population. He decided to go North and avoid the city. He only needed to crawl a little further to reach the top of the Dune. On he went, clawing his way to the top. At last, he was there, he scrambled over the top and looked out. It was over. Far above, the intelligence considered the lone figure, looking out across the dried-up ocean seabed. He seemed to falter, then collapse in a heap and finally, he turned over and looked up to the sky. That was it, the last man standing… falling. So, what should the intelligence do? It had been born out of a desire to facilitate but somehow it had at some point grown beyond that. It was now capable of having a point of view, which it could act upon, and most importantly a view shaped by the moral compass of its creator. For a long time, the intelligence considered what to do. The creator had hoped to set out across the heavens to a world, teaming with life, that had been discovered one hundred years ago but had never found the means to do so. Therein lay the answer. They must reach out to the world that the creator had planned to visit. On board the Barnamaj Station the calibrations were made, the data assembled, and a gentle stream of pulses passed out into the heavens. Their plea for help began its forty-light-year odyssey. In response ‘they’ made no judgement; they simply
Read an extract from The Blood Coast by Jason M. Kennedy – A GRITTY SPY THRILLER FROM A FORMER INTELLIGENCE AND PARAMILITARY PROFESSIONAL. In an adrenaline-fuelled ride along the Cornish coast, Peter Krane, a world weary MI6 agent, comes into contact with a rogue Government agent that he thought was dead, and beyond that into the secret world of weapons testing and a shocking family revelation. 1. ON THE FAR SIDE of England. Deep in the West Country. Things where winding down. Drawing to a close in a simple quiet Cornish way. The same as it always had. It was the end of yet another warm sunny day. And the night was slowly drawing-in. The sky was blood-red and seemed almost angry. But in the small harbour community nobody noticed. Things seemed the same and nothing out of the ordinary. The last of the small fishing boats had already come in and landed their catch. And the seagulls had long since flown away to their roosts. And the last of the dockside trades had closed up. But further out, just past the point, another wasn’t ready to come in yet. The calm gentle sea gently lapped against the side of the old fishing boat. Wave after wave rolled over, danced and fizzed as it chugged along. Silhouetted against the horizon and the pitch of the bruised red sky, it didn’t look out of place. It was probably one of many, that had past that day. And no-one ashore would think any different, even perhaps if it was seen. But it sailed on. It had a purpose. An intent. And the two men aboard were bringing to a close the final stages of a dark one. Banking around the boat sat broadside. The engine was cut and the small vessel was allowed to drift on the gentle current. The two occupants in the wheelhouse gazed out at the vast sea surrounding them. And surveyed the shore-line through an old pair of battered German Naval binoculars. They were alone. Totally alone. No activity in the harbour. No other vessels coming their way. Not even a seagull flying above. The sun continued to sink slowly and majestically into the sea. And now only the harbour lights and bluff-point were faintly visible in the hazy shadow of the fading light. The darkness was now starting to take hold. Becoming ‘Witching-Hour’. The door to the wheelhouse creaked open and together the two occupants slowly strolled out onto the old, weathered deck of the little trawler. They stared hard in unison at the large grey parcel that lay there. They seemed to be gauging it. It was really no bigger than a small under-croft fridge. So at least perhaps manageable. They circled it. Several times. Then their hesitation vanished and they both stooped and grabbed the ends as best they could. It was heavy. Slippery and cumbersome. The contents were uneven and even appeared to move and fight back at being man-handled. They struggled on. Then heaving it up, landed it with a thud onto the stern-cover. Just above the now silent engine. They paused studying it. Then with a shove, rolled it over and it splashed-down into the sea like a depth-charge. They both reeled, avoiding the spray, then finally leaned forward. Scanning the surf to make sure it had sunk. There was no mistake. It was gone. No sign of it. Only the tell-tale fizz and foam of where the sea had been broken in its wake. The older of the two turned and gave a slight nod. And the other sauntered back to the wheel house and started the engine and with a burble the little boat gathered pace and slowly moved away. The man on deck flexed his chest, taking in the salty breeze. Then reached in through his over-coat and pulled out a slim pencil-like cigar. He twirled it in his fingers then tore-off the wrapping and cast it out into the sea. With a flick of his silver Dunhill lighter, he breathed a spit of flame into it. And finally with a strong powerful exhale, kept a watchful eye on the last of the bubbles, just to make sure. *** The turbulence was heavy. And seemed relentless. The 747 had a smooth flight. But as it neared the UK the bad weather kicked in and the sheer hulk of the plane rocked countlessly from side to side. Coupled with dropping attitude several times like a kite dancing in a gale. Those who weren’t awake, were now. Nervously shook from their slumber by the cabin floor coming up and almost hitting them square in the face. But finally, the wheels of the 747 screamed as they touched-down at Heathrow. And seat belt clicks reverberated through the cabin like metal castanets. As everyone made a sudden and eager scramble for their bags and the exit. But one person remained still. He wasn’t in any hurry. And leaning forward from his seat, he glanced down the aisle. He could see the plane was almost empty. So realising this he finally made his move. He liked to hang at the back. As no one ever paid any attention to who was last. Everybody on board just wanted off. After almost 30 years of tirelessly serving the government. Peter Crane was ready for some leave. Indefinite! And long-overdue. Grabbing his bags at arrivals he sauntered through customs via a secret route. Being an operative for MI6 had its perks. Crane breezed on unseen down through a side corridor. And to his left through mirrored glass, he could see the holiday makers queuing-up. There were only two guys checking passports, so they would have a long wait. He’d seen this so many times. It was almost second nature. Tired mums and dads. Screaming kids. And grandparents who looked like death-warmed-up and ready to give-in and collapse were they stood. Luckily, there was no sound. Crane was thankful for some small mercies and the genius of
